


fade to grey

by books_and_spite



Series: all we see is light [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Prompt Fic, Recovery, The Author Regrets Everything, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Tumblr Prompt, Wakes & Funerals, write-it-motherfuckers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27263668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/books_and_spite/pseuds/books_and_spite
Summary: When you find your soulmate, the world bursts into color. So it makes sense that when your soulmate dies, you lose the ability to see color.Alexander Hamilton wasn’t aware that Thomas Jefferson was James Madison’s soulmate.Until the funeral.Prompts (from @write-it-motherfuckers on Tumblr):6- Bone deep sorrow that coats the world in grey9- Witnessing someone strong, crumble for the first time
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Thomas Jefferson/James Madison
Series: all we see is light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052852
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	fade to grey

**Author's Note:**

> pain :) so much pain :)

The sky is grey on the day of the funeral.

 _It’s like the whole damn world is mourning for James Madison_ , Alexander thinks, as he watches. _It **should**_ , he viciously adds. 

People are starting to clear out. The Madisons don’t linger. They were never particularly close to James, especially after his (short-lived) relationship with Alexander. Alexander glares at their backs as he walks forward, hands in his pockets. 

John Jay gives him a sad glance as he passes by. Dolley Payne sniffles once as she leaves the grave. Neither of them try to talk to Alexander.

James Madison was one of his best friends and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t _fair_ that James was always sick, it wasn’t _fair_ that James was dead because of his fucking illness, _nothing was fair_. 

He crouches beside the grave. There are bright yellow flowers on it. _James would like them, he always did love yellow,_ Alexander thinks. He lays his own bouquet of yellow flowers by the gravestone. Leans forward to read it, almost reverently.

James Madison. Treasured friend. Loved by all. Born 16 March, 1996. Deceased 28 June, 2020. 

It’s too short to really be James. His James was more verbose, more sarcastic, even if he did comment on Alexander’s over-eloquence. This- isn’t him.

Alexander can feel tears pricking at his eyes, but there are no more tears left in him. He’s cried too much already, today. 

He stumbles back.

Straight into someone else.

Alexander turns and stares straight into the eyes of Thomas Jefferson.

Thomas, his greatest political rival, for a time. His tentative ally, now; acquaintance bordering on friendship. _James’ other best friend._

He looks a fucking _mess_ , normal magenta coat shed in favor of a simple black blazer and dress pants, eyes red and puffy, shoulders slumped. It’s cold, at this time of year, but he’s not wearing any protection from the biting wind. He’s alone. He’s _lonely_ , Alexander realizes with a start.

Alexander knew James for fifteen years, and it was a damn good fifteen years of friendship, but Thomas- Thomas had known James for all of his life. _God._ If Alexander is feeling like this, like utter _shit_ , he cannot begin to imagine what Thomas is feeling like. A spark of pity lights inside him.

Thomas doesn’t even react when Alexander stares at him. He just pushes past and kneels beside the grave. 

Alexander doesn’t leave. It’s like his eyes are drawn to this picture of desolation and he can’t look away. 

Thomas is knelt on the cold earth, hands pressed into the grass just beside James’ grave. His head is bowed. He’s shaking.

_Fuck._

He is saying something, something that Alexander can’t discern and doesn’t want to discern, and- he’s crying. Sobbing. Helpless. Alexander doesn’t think he’s ever seen Thomas this broken. 

Oh god, he has to do something, he can’t let Thomas fall apart like this with a good conscience. 

So, against his better judgement, he drops to his knees beside Thomas, and places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Jefferson, are you alright?” He asks quietly. _“Thomas?”_

Thomas just shakes harder, folding in on himself. “I- go away. Please, Alexander.”

Alexander backs away. If Thomas is calling him Alexander, and not Hamilton or Alex, things must be really bad. James must have been closer to Thomas than Alexander thought.

“I’ll be here, okay?” He says gently.

Thomas mumbles something back, reaching out and touching a flower. His posture is heartbreaking, the way he’s clutching at the grass like his life depends on it, his lowered head, his crouch- everything.

He presses a finger to one of Alexander’s flowers, and snatches his hand away almost immediately.

“What color is it?” He whispers quietly.

Alexander frowns at him. “What?”

Because Thomas _can_ see colors. He has a soulmate, he’s named colors before, Alexander is sure of that. Unless- unless- no, it _can’t_ be, oh my _god_ -

 _“Fuck,”_ he whispers.

James was his soulmate, wasn’t he?

 _“What color is it?”_ Thomas demands desperately. “Please- please just _tell_ me-”

And he falls apart, right there in front of Alexander, sinking to the ground and curling up and sobbing, huge gasping sobs that don’t seem to end, and Alexander rushes forward on instinct, enfolding Thomas in an embrace. 

Thomas doesn’t hold back; he folds into a mess of warmth and tears and sorrow and Alexander can feel the tears soaking into his shirt, and god _damn_ it he has never, _ever_ seen Thomas Jefferson this utterly pathetic and this feels so fucking _wrong_. 

It’s not a gradual thing. It is a moment, one point in time suspended in a void, and all of a sudden you see him break. He is shattered along the seams and Alexander can see no way to put this broken man back together again, not when he is crying into Alexander’s shoulder and showing no sign of stopping anytime soon.

Alexander casts his eyes to the sky desperately. _James_ , he calls in his heart. _Come back. I need you. **He** needs you_. James is the only one who can fix this.

He’s not here.

Not anymore.

He’s not coming back.

So Alexander grits his teeth and tugs Thomas up with him, supporting the taller man. “Thomas. Listen to me, okay? We’re going home. To my home. You can’t stay out here like this.”

Thomas says something under his breath. Alexander only catches the end of it. “...deserve this. _I deserve this.”_

Alexander stops in his tracks and grips Thomas by the shoulders. “Listen to me. You do not deserve this.” God damn it, it’s heartbreaking to see this and he’s never even been particularly close to Thomas. He hesitates before using the one thing that might get Thomas to stop. 

“James wouldn’t want this.”

He knows he’s made a mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

But he doesn’t expect the fury with which Thomas turns on him, suddenly vengeful, eyes gleaming with something dangerous and primal and _frighteningly_ haunted, tearing himself from Alexander’s grip. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking _dare_ bring him into this- _don’t you fucking dare-”_

He breaks off with an angry hiss. “I fucking _loved_ him and he’s gone and I should have been able to _save_ him, he was my world, he was my life, he was _everything!”_

He looks like he’s going to kill Alexander, strangle him with his bare hands- and then the fight drains back out of him. He slumps, looking miserable. “Sorry. He was your friend too. I know. I’m _sorry.”_

“Hey, it’s okay,” Alexander says gently. He touches Thomas’ shoulder again. The other man falls back onto him.

Nothing more is said between them. Alexander gets Thomas into his car, in the front seat, and straps into the driver’s seat.

“I’m taking you back home with me tonight,” he says. “Just tonight. Tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Thomas whispers, terribly lost and young and lonely. He looks down. Starts picking at his sleeve like a twelve-year-old, not a renowned politician. His eyes glitter with tears. 

Alexander doesn’t do anything.

What _can_ he do?

Thomas does nothing except that for the whole thirty-minute drive, until Alexander can see his house.

Then he asks, “The flowers were yellow, weren’t they?”

“They were,” Alexander tells him.

And Thomas seems to break again, only this time the break is hidden well, but not well enough; Alexander can see him crumple, ever so slightly, can see the way he mouths James’ name, mouths _Jemmy,_ curling his fingers into fists, drawing blood.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Alexander says helplessly.

Thomas just blinks at him, slowly and exhaustedly. But he uncurls his fingers. 

_God, James. I need you. We need you back with us_.

* * *

Alexander gets Thomas settled in. He accepts a cup of tea from Eliza with a muttered thanks; eats dinner, even, and Alexander is starting to have a little bit of hope.

But Eliza, his dear wife, sees what he doesn’t.

She tells him after Thomas excuses himself, sent off to the bathroom with a change of clothes. She tells him about the dead look in Thomas Jefferson’s eyes. The emptiness. The slow, unsure movements.

“That,” she says, “is the look of a man who has lost everything he held dear.”

Eliza knows about loss. She’s lost Peggy.

Alexander, for his part, knows about loss, too; Laurens and his mother are both long gone by now, but- he remembers how long it took for him to process it. How he still hasn’t truly accepted it. It’s how he goes on.

Eliza looks at him with sad eyes, and Alexander reaches out to clasp her hands over the table. 

“He will not be alright any time soon, Alexander,” she tells him, voice soft and lilting and painfully gentle.

“Are any of us alright?” He asks, just as quietly.

She doesn’t answer him. “That poor man.”

“I could not lose you, my dearest Betsey,” Alexander murmurs.

“Neither could I lose you, my Alexander,” she whispers back. 

There’s a moment of silence. Loss permeates the air.

“We have to help him,” Alexander says, finally. He is not about to let Thomas Jefferson kill himself over his soulmate. He is not about to lose another friend.

For James’ sake, at least, he has to help Thomas.

Eliza nods firmly, and stands, her long skirt swishing. “I suppose we go to him, then.”

Alexander offers her his arm, and together they walk down the hall to the guest room. Thomas is inside- the lights are on. But the door is firmly locked; when Alexander tries to open the door, it clicks dangerously.

He gives Eliza a dismayed look. 

Eliza knocks gently on the door. “Thomas? Unlock the door, please.”

No reply.

 _“Thomas,”_ Alexander says. 

No reply.

Eliza reaches into her pocket and takes out a small key. “Should I-?”

Click-creak. The door opens. Thomas is standing there, behind the door. He looks vaguely presentable, although his eyes- oh, Alexander can see it now and he does not like what he sees.

Red and puffy and teary and haunted.

He’s wearing one of Alexander’s shirts, and a pair of jeans, looking far too casual to be really Thomas. Thomas is always overdramatic and colorful and bright. 

But he can’t see color. He doesn’t have color in his world anymore.

Maybe that’s why he stares at them with such weariness. “Alexander. Eliza. Are you coming in?”

“We are worried about you, Thomas,” Eliza says, in that gentle way of hers. “Are you- will you be alright?”

Thomas barks a short, exhausted laugh. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“No,” Eliza readily agrees, “but once the initial hurt is over- if this lasts too long, you will need help.”

“I loved him,” Thomas says flatly. “Do you expect me not to hurt? He was my soulmate. He was my _world.”_

“We know that, Thomas,” Alexander intervenes. “But-”

“Let me mourn. _Please,”_ Thomas cuts him off. “Just for this while.”

And he looks so lost that Alexander and Eliza have to say yes, because saying no would crush him, he looks so fragile. 

So they go to bed, and hold each other tight, and try their best to ignore the quiet sobs that they can hear coming from the guest room.

“We are helpless against grief,” Eliza murmurs into Alexander’s chest. “He is helpless.”

“I swear to god, my Eliza, you’ll never feel so helpless,” he tells her, and presses a kiss to her forehead, and she sighs into him.

What can they _do_ now?

What can they do but wait?

* * *

Thomas isn’t there the next morning. He leaves the clothes neatly washed and folded on the guest room bed.

* * *

He doesn’t show up to work for the next three days. 

* * *

Alexander knocks on his door on the evening of the third day.

He’s not there.

* * *

He’s at the graveyard. Knelt like a fallen angel. Terribly, terribly young.

* * *

Alexander leaves him alone.

* * *

On the fourth day, Thomas shows up to work.

It’s... unexpected, to say the least. Washington had already assigned three people to help take care of his work. His breakdown is public knowledge by now. He’s refused all interviews.

It’s not _hard_ to see why he’s not at work.

The only statement his PR team has released in the last three days goes something like, _yes, they were soulmates, now fuck off._ It’s rather justified.

So. Thomas shows up to work. And shocks everyone.

But it’s not even the most surprising thing about him.

His magenta coat is gone now. In its place is a pressed white suit, like all the color has been drained from him.

Alexander can’t help but flinch when he sees it.

Thomas doesn’t stop to talk to him, or anyone; just goes straight to his office and shuts himself inside.

Alexander leaves food outside the door. It remains untouched.

Alexander stays until ten. That’s when the office shuts. Thomas emerges just as the hour hand on his watch hits ten.

He looks up tiredly at Alexander and says, “Save it.”

And promptly disappears.

Alexander is left behind, confused and sorrowful and worried out of his mind.

The cycle repeats itself again, day after day, week after week, and it is so _clear_ that Thomas is working himself too hard, that he’s going to pass out from exhaustion if he keeps on going at this rate, that he’s not eating, not sleeping, not _living._

Alexander does his best. But- Thomas doesn’t want to be helped. 

He spends all his time at the graveyard.

And it’s so painful, to see Thomas work himself to the bone- but Alexander can do _nothing._

* * *

The one to do something is, surprisingly, Angelica Schuyler.

She marches to his office one day, just back from London, walking through the rain, and practically drags him out of his office by the arm, him kicking and screaming all the way.

She picks Alexander up along the way, hoists him up by his jacket, and tugs the both of them to an out-of-the-way diner, sits them down, and looks at them expectantly.

Thomas gives Angelica the filthiest look Alexander has ever seen, and spits, “What are you doing?”

“Helping you,” Angelica says, matter-of-factly, and gives him an unimpressed stare in return. “You can’t just keep doing this.”

Alexander backs her up. At last, an ally. “She’s right, Thomas.” He reaches out to touch Thomas’ hand- the other man pulls away. _Back to square one. Oh, who am I kidding, we were always at square one._

But Angelica is here, now. And she’s angry. “God damn it, Thomas. I know you’re hurting. Believe me, I know. I know loss. But you can’t just keep trying to kill yourself working-”

“What do I have left?” Thomas asks, barely a whisper. “James was what kept me going. It was him. All him.”

“You have us,” Alexander says firmly. “We care about you, Thomas.” And, well, he’s going to pull this card again. Anger is better than this apathy of Thomas’. 

“James loved you. He’d want you to be healthy and happy.”

_“I loved him!”_

“So s _tay alive for him!”_ Angelica counters.

“He’s dead,” Thomas says thickly. “What’s the point?”

“ _You_ are the point,” Alexander says, and Thomas looks at him, disbelievingly.

Angelica smiles, gently, tentatively. “Try, Thomas. Please. For us. For him. For you.”

“But-”

“We love you too, Thomas,” Alexander says.

“He will always be part of you,” Angelica continues.

“But life goes on and he would want you to be happy and to live.”

“That man loved you, Thomas. Don’t let his love die in vain. You matter. To him. To us. Take care of yourself.”

Angelica seems more vulnerable than ever. “Please.”

Thomas blinks once, and lets out a little sigh, a hidden sob.. “I. Okay. I- I will.”

He nurses his cup of hot chocolate shakily. “But I can’t forget him.”

“We don’t expect you to,” Alexander tells him, and they’re finally getting somewhere, he is so _relieved_. “Tell us. Everything.”

And in the middle of the pouring rain, in a shitty little diner in some shitty little corner of New York City, Thomas Jefferson smiles a very small smile, tears in his eyes, and begins, “James Madison’s favorite color was yellow.”


End file.
